


But You've Got Silver in the Stars

by athena_crikey



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Gen, Memory Loss, PTSD, Repressed Memories, h/c, shell-shock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 01:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17214101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Bertie goes in search of some ink, and finds something else entirely. Memories of the past aren't always pleasant, except when they aren't there at all.





	But You've Got Silver in the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Green Ice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/255163) by [Adina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adina/pseuds/Adina). 



> Full credit to Adina, who introduced this amazing plot point in Green Ice. It is forever now my headcanon. Posted w/permission originally on LJ, of late added to AO3.

I’ve had occasion in the past to mention a few of the corking plots Jeeves has produced to extricate the young master and varied compatriots from the jaws of peril. The man’s brain is an absolute wonder, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if museums are already writing to him and asking for samples of his grey matter to display in among exhibits of Humanity’s Brightest. I believe I have also touched upon occasion on the bally miraculous restorative he has a knack of mixing that can pick a chum up even when he awakes feeling as though an exceptionally bad tempered water buffalo has taken a few passes over the old bean – a talent which alone would more than earn his keep.

The point is, though, that when singing the praises of a man for whom even my aunt Agatha has no sharp word – a category of one – I would be remiss in overlooking his housekeeping.

Many have claimed that the gentler sex is one with an innate gift of cleanliness and order. To those, I fear I can have nothing other to say than: _pshaw_. Clearly no such claimant has ever met Helen Wimpernell, who reined in her abundant correspondence by anchoring it to her dining room table with the fireplace tongs, or Dagne Fothershaw, who never tidied anything away and spent nearly all her waking hours searching for things she’d been given last week and lost under the tide. 

Jeeves, on the other hand, runs a very taut ship. All present and correct, kitchen and bedroom, pantry and sitting room. The one downside, if it may be termed that, is that Jeeves is the one who knows where everything is. On his annual holiday, I generally turn the whole flat out searching for the stamps, and get myself into an all-around hopeless muddle of shoe polish and cans of consommé until he returns to sort me out again like a shepherd extracting a wayward sheep from some particularly gnarled brambles. 

Fortunately, it’s another several months until Jeeves is due to launch into his soothing migration. But Jeeves, while always eager to give assistance in any way, does sometimes tend to level a rather reproachful eye upon the Wooster personage if called away from his tasks for a job of less than middling importance. And unhappily, that describes the present posish. 

Over the past few weeks London had been stricken by plague of my dearest, including both aunt Agatha and Dahlia, and my turnip-headed cousins Claude and Eustace. Rather like the great albatross, the arrival of the Wooster clan is often an omen of ill fortune, and this veritable flood of relatives necessitated a raft of correspondence as I sought to navigate stormy waters. To make a long story short, although I eventually escaped with both freedom and mind intact, I now found that my desk had run dry of that one essential commodity: ink.

Jeeves, of course, would have ordered in boxes of self-fillers – he has a pretty ripping correspondence himself, I believe. However, at the moment he was employed in the bedroom shining a rather contrary pair of patent-leathers. With his attentions focused entirely upon the world of fine footwear, I determined to seek out the articles in question myself. Abandoning pen and paper, I heaved the old phyz. out of the chair, and lumbered off towards the pantry like a bear that scents honey upon the breeze.

The pantry is entirely Jeeves’ domain, a world of polished tile and gleaming surfaces. I passed by the cupboards dedicated to the lesser-used crockery and linen and foodstuffs, past the rack of stately brooms and mops, past the noble home of the ironing board which I had discovered on Jeeves’ last vacation but one when (entirely unprovoked) it leapt out of its lair and conked me one front and centre.

I finally came upon the small closet dedicated to all those items too miscellaneous to have a proper dwelling place. That contraption for extracting the juice from citrus fruit, the thing-gummy your old nurse once gave you for cleaning in behind stubborn furniture, the whimsical doodad shaped rather like a propeller whose origin and purpose no one remembers, they all resided here. 

I flung open the door, arm upraised to prevent a repeat of the ironing-board incident. There was no sign of violence from within, however, and I reached up and pulled the string to illuminate the cramped closet. As I had remembered, it was simply a U-shaped set of shelves, holding a multitude of mundane household items. I set about searching for a box labelled ink, or similar, tracking my progress with a finger to ensure an efficient effort.

I had covered about three shelves, progressing past sewing supplies and home furnishing tools into a range of cleaners and polishes, when I discovered an old tin box about the size of a shoe box. Determined to make a thorough search, I flicked open the latch and raised the lid. 

The inside was designed rather like some trunks and chests, the sort with the little removable shelf on the top to store the smaller or more fragile items which might otherwise be crushed when tossed in with the hurly-burly of the rest of one’s luggage. Under the top shelf, I could see the box was filled with letters, some hand-written and some typed. The shelf held only a long velvet-covered case, the type ladies jewellery is often supplied in. However its shape was not one I could readily match to any of the usual gewgaws favoured by the female sex, being too long for earrings, too short for a bracelet, and too narrow for a necklace. Frowning, I prised open the little case’s jolly strong hinges.

I must say in my defense, lest I be accused of snooping into my valet’s private affects, that Jeeves keeps his p.a.’s in his own room and would hardly be storing them in a pantry closet. As I found it in my own pantry, I felt perfectly entitled to inspect the contents of the mysterious box.

The inside of the case was lined with the same velvet as the outside. Lined up neat and tidy on its surface were three … three medals. Yes. Military, the sort one sees the old survivals of Afghanistan or the Boer war wearing on their lapels now and then; I’ve noticed a surge of younger fellows affecting them in recent years, in what I can only call bad taste.

For some reason, though, these had a draw, an allure. I found myself running my fingers over them slowly, tracing their edges. Oddly, even as I stared at them, they were somehow difficult to focus on. They were… well taken care of. Bright ribbon in different colours – red, blue and white, blue and red. Shining, polished metal. Two cross-shaped, one a circle. Engraved. The words, I couldn’t quite seem to make out. I turned one over; on the back of the bar was more writing. I tried to focus, squinted at the tiny letters. Major B. W – 

“Sir?”

I dropped the case, jumping like a cat that hears the first catapult stone miss, and stumbled back against the shelves as I turned. Jeeves was standing in the doorway looking … unusually perturbed. Jeeves is a marble-faced bloke, scarcely showing a hint of emotion under even the most straining conditions. His features certainly weren’t leaping about now either, but I detected a hint of a furrow about the brows and a small puckering in the lips. 

For some reason I seemed to be shaking; I could feel my legs tapping against the inside of my trousers like jelly, and the shelf was holding more of my weight than was probably allowed for in the building code. I looked down at the case, and then back up at Jeeves, who was striding swiftly across the floor. He scooped up the case in one quick movement, shutting its lid with a snap of the hinges and slipping it into one of his pockets. 

“Are you alright, sir?” I fancied I perceived a touch more genuineness of spirit than Jeeves sometimes imparts. 

“Oh yes, quite alright, Jeeves. Just came over feeling a bit dizzy. Perhaps it’s all the polish.”

“That could well be, sir. This compartment is not well ventilated. Would you like to come into the sitting room?” He took my arm without waiting for an answer, and guided me out of the pantry. Sundered from the support of the shelf, I found that I was shaking somewhat harder than I had realised. Thoughts seemed to be leaking away as I walked, if you catch my drift. I would be the first to admit I’m not the brainiest of chaps, but I can generally keep a line of thought in the old noggin from one minute to the next. Just at the moment, though, they all seemed to be draining away into the ether. 

I came back to myself a bit sitting in the overstuffed chair by the fireplace, with the taste of brandy in my mouth and Jeeves hovering with that same perturbed look just by the armrest. I attempted to rally, stiffening the old spinal column into a closer approximation of 180 degrees, if that’s the number I mean.

“’Pologies, Jeeves. Don’t know what came over me. All that business lately with my family barging about the place must have taken more out of me than I quite realised.”

“Yes, sir. A quiet few days is well advised, sir.” He said it with a certain forcefulness that made me nod instinctively.

“Yes, you may be right. A bit of a rest, what?” I closed my eyes, feeling rather weary.

“Precisely, sir.”

“I say, Jeeves?” I opened them again, looking over at him without moving in the manner of those quite disturbing clocks with the eyes that move in time with the minute. “Those medals…” 

I had the oddest sensation as the words slipped out. It felt as though a huge blustering wind was blowing up, pushing at my back to knock me over, and I was only just managing to stand upright. It seemed that I was right on the brink of being pushed over by it – that I might topple over at any mo. Bally strange. I wondered briefly if this was what thrillers referred to as a brainstorm, the kind of thing that strikes a chap down when he realises he’s been framed for the murder of three men and a charming Pekinese named Rover and has no possible means of extricating himself from the charge.

“Belonged to my great-uncle, sir,” said Jeeves, smoothly. The wind died down as suddenly as it had come, leaving me feeling dashed puzzled and bemused, and not a bit dizzy on top of it all.

“Your great-uncle?”

“Yes, sir. He served in the Crimean War.”

I nodded, indicating my comprehension of this fact. “And you inherited his mementos, eh? Dashed respectful of you to look after them so well – they shine as brightly as your cutlery.”

“Thank you, sir. I believe we owe those who fought for this country our deepest respect, even if they are not able to appreciate it.”

“Quite right, Jeeves. Your great-uncle passed on, I expect?”

I may have been imagining things – I wasn’t in my most perceptive state, as I’ve mentioned – but I fancy Jeeves hesitated for a moment before replying, “Yes, sir,” in a sort of subdued way. Proper respect for the departed and all that. 

“Well, go on keeping the things in the closet if you like. I dare say there’s more than enough room for them.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jeeves bowed and shimmered out. I closed my eyes again, and must have dropped off right there. I know I dreamt, but when I woke I could only remember two words: For valour. Quite meaningless, I expect.

END


End file.
